


When thunder called

by orphan_account



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Dubious Consent, F/F, Half-Sibling Incest, Non-Graphic Violence, Power Imbalance, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-21
Updated: 2011-01-21
Packaged: 2017-11-16 23:05:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/544825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-3.02. Morgause is unimpressed with Morgana’s failure during the skeleton siege at Camelot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When thunder called

“It was hardly an unreasonable task,” said Morgause. She set down the goblet with enough force that the wine slopped over the rim, spilt onto the rough-hewn wood of the table. It was all over her fingers too, and Morgana watched as Morgause wiped them carelessly on her dress, staining the cloth with the purple-red of a bruise.

The room was over-warm. Morgause liked it hotter than Morgana did, luxuriated in the heat like a great, satisfied cat. Sweat gleamed on the skin on her chest, between her breasts; honed her cheekbones into marble cuts. Her hair blazed golden in the firelight.

“If it was such an _reasonable task,_ as you put it, why haven’t you managed it?” Morgana bit out. Her heart was thudding loudly in her chest, her whole body tensing, alert. She forced her hands to uncurl by her sides – a princess must never show weakness – and turned in a whirl of skirts, stalking across the room. She threw herself into a chair and schooled her face to look unconcerned.

A silence. Then, “I gave you so much to work with.” Morgause’s voice was low and, perhaps for the first time, uncertain. The disappointment in it was clear, and it made Morgana’s cheeks prickle with heat.

It _hadn’t been_ her fault, that was the truth. She knew it, and when Morgause was thinking clearly again, she’d know it too. Only Morgause has been so hopeful, so sure that this time the plan would work that its failure had weighed more than it would’ve, otherwise.

Morgause made her way to where Morgana sat. She loved the way Morgause smelled – not sweet, like the ladies at the court who dabbed their throats with bland oils of distilled flowers, but a little musky and dark, like some wild thing barely tamed. Her scent was one of the first things about her that Morgana noticed; it made her seem alien, exciting. Time spent together had engendered familiarity, but Morgause could still occasionally be an unknown quantity, and her usually honey-sweet tongue made her quicksilver flashes of temper and cruelty all the more startling.

“Tell me this,” said Morgause. Her voice was so quiet that even from such a close distance, Morgana strained to hear.

“Did you try your best? Did you put in your every effort to take over that cesspool of ignorance and arrogance that masquerades as the great – city – ” here she leaned in, staring down with her lovely dark eyes, “of Camelot?”

“I – ” Morgana began, but trailed off as Morgause cupped her cheek in her palm, gently, gently. Morgana could feel Morgause’s sword calluses, the product of years of training, dedication and sweat. She thumbed at Morgana’s bottom lip, dipped a finger in the wetness of her mouth; she brushed her knuckles against Morgana’s temple and smoothed back her hair. Morgana fought the urge to close her eyes and press into that hand.

“Or, dear sister,” said Morgause, like a whisper of silk, “does some part of you yet remain loyal to Uther Pendragon and his false reign?”

Horror seized at her throat and rendered her speechless for a long, terrible moment, but Morgana soon found her voice. “No! God, no! I _loathe_ Uther; I did everything I could to succeed, I swear it on my life – ”

“Liar!”

There was a sharp pain and Morgana found herself on the cold stone floor, blinking tears from her eyes. From the curtain of her hair she saw the chair she’d been in had toppled over. She clutched her cheek – it hurt, yes, but moreover she was reeling internally: Morgause had hit her.

“Get up.”

The words were crisp, unemotional. They sounded foggy, like they were coming from some place far away. Morgana stared up at Morgause, panting harshly.

Oh, god. Morgause, Morgause.

“Get up now, or I will pull you up by your hair.”

The meaning of the words fought its way through the haze in her mind and Morgana stumbled to her feet, standing on shaky legs.

“Good,” said Morgause. A smile broke across her face like an unexpected cloud break on an overcast day. “Now bend over the table and lift your skirts.”

Morgana did as she was told, not daring to ask what would happen next. It took both hands to hold her skirts – even her under-shift; Morgause hadn’t specified and Morgana didn’t want to risk angering her further – up at waist level, and her position on her stomach on the table left her feeling incredibly exposed, helpless. The air was cold against her legs without those extra layers of material protection. The table was hard, squashing her breasts beneath her, and rough against the bare skin of her chest and face. A splinter would hurt, but she did not raise protest.

“Don’t make a sound,” said Morgause, before striking Morgana’s naked buttock with the flat of her hand.

Morgana cried out. “What the hell – ?” She attempted to heave herself off the table but Morgause leaned on her back, holding her down. Morgana kicked out her legs and clawed with her fingers, struggling to fight off Morgause’s weight as more blows rained down on her buttocks. She shrieked her rage against the wood, pinned and humiliated.

The strikes were not regular; Morgause would lay a number of them in a hard, stinging flurry, then strike intermittently. They were distributed unevenly: some on the tops of Morgana’s thighs, others on the meat of her behind, some almost on her lower back, and others so close to her cunt that she flinched. The strikes themselves were bearable; it was after Morgause’s hand was lifted away that heat would rise in Morgana’s sore flesh, until she felt hot and tender all over.

“Be quiet.”

Eventually, she stopped yelling. Her throat was sore, anyway, but she could not remain completely silent as Morgause kept punishing her; she let out little whimpers and gasping breaths on the harder hits. She struggled less, only pushing against Morgause’s restraining arm intermittently and not as fierce as before.

Each strike made her feel hotter, zinged through her whole body until she felt it everywhere. She felt it in her groin and it made her clench and unclench repeatedly; she felt it in the pit of her stomach. It tightened her nipples into stiff, aching points. She became aware that she was wet, so wet that her thighs were slick, that Morgause’s hand was probably covered in it.

A few minutes later, Morgana stopped fighting altogether, boneless and quiescent. She didn’t try to anticipate the strikes but let the world fuzz out, and that molten heat swallow her. She only lay her head against the table top and took everything Morgause gave her. Morgana blinked slowly. A bit more wine spilt out of the abandoned goblet as the table jolted. The puddle slowly grew larger before her eyes.

Morgause drew away and Morgana felt as if she were waking from a dream. She turned to face Morgause and had to sit on the table, so shaky were her legs.

“Take care of yourself,” said Morgause. Her eyes were heavy-lidded.

Licking her lips, Morgana nodded. She hiked her skirts up again and spread her knees, watched as Morgause’s gaze dipped down. A few minutes of her teasing her clit, stroking at it lightly, turning the blood in her veins to liquid fire, had her jerking and coming in hitched breaths – it swept over her like great waves, sent her spiralling up into the ceiling.

The puddle of wine finally grew large enough to reach the edge of the table top and trickle onto the floor, splattering the hem of Morgause’s dress.


End file.
